Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Bonnie Cherry, despot, nudie model, arbiter of awesome, enjoys subterfuge, spray paint, and livin' like a sybarite
What do you look forward to most on Thanksgiving...bloating and abdominal distension, or uncomfortable interaction with people you have nothing in common with (i.e., your family)?
“It's hard to decide, really. On one hand, I really enjoy having my family close. Who else can remind me that I am too thin, that I have dark circles under my eyes, that I have not finished college, that I don't have a husband, and that knowing what Gaius Julius Caesar had for breakfast—typically lemon juice in hot water—will not pay my rent? It's important to remember these things, after all, lest I become too ‘happy’ or ‘complacent.’ On the other hand, I get really excited about the ubiquitous It's All From Cans’green bean casserole, the So Raw In the Middle That You Spend Black Friday in the Emergency Room turkey, and the WTF: Is This Really Supposed to Have Cottage Cheese, Marshmallows, and Corn In It? Jell-o molds.”
What tips do you have for negotiating the perils of conservative family members who still haven't quite wrapped their head around a black president? Do you use the electric turkey knife to carve a backwards "B" in their face?
“Unfortunately, I don't have any advice to offer, as my family seems to be sitting somewhere on the opposite end of the spectrum. I think that the past eight years have turned my family into a bunch of radicals. Maybe not sending-mail-bombs-and-anthrax- cookies-to-federal-judges kind of radical, but certainly the writing-incendiary-rap-songs- about-dismembering-the-constitution-and-overthrowing-the-government kind of radical. My Uncle Marty wrote one last month and when he ‘sang’ it he sounded like Toby Keith if Toby Keith were a member of Public Enemy. It was very surreal. I'm sorry that I can't be of help with the whole ‘confronting conservative b-holes and converting them into warm human beings’ problem. If your family is anything like mine, then the Bush Administration has done it for you already.”
Cranberry sauce—neither cranberry nor sauce? Discuss some of the culinary misfires you've encountered at Thanksgiving and how you politely sidestep these gastro-intestinal land-mines.
“Far from avoiding culinary catastrophes, I seem to actually embrace them with gusto and without apologies. There was nothing polite about the pot roast I braised in three liters of Shiraz—wtf?—the year I decided that we needed to step away from turkey. The rubbery meat and gravy were a dull purplish gray color, and since we in the Midwest pour the gravy on every course of the meal, well—I don't have to tell you that the table looked like a feast of toxic waste. Don't even get me started on the time that Grandma accidentally used cinnamon on the deviled eggs instead of paprika. A laugh riot.”
Is Thanksgiving a time that we should put aside petty differences and unite around our common heritage of eradicating Native Americans?
“Nothing says ‘family’ like petty differences. And nothing says ‘Thanks’ like wiping out an entire continent of peoples, raping their sacred lands, serving up over 500 years of betrayal and oppression—and then feasting in celebration! Goddamn—I am just so proud to be an American right now.”
Any advice for cooking a turkey? Any advice for secretly getting drunk while everyone else is busy cooking a turkey?
“I don't see why preparing a feast and getting openly, brazenly drunk should be two irreconcilable, exclusive activities. I like to start drinking the second I begin preparing the feast, which is usually 24 hours in advance. Sort of a ‘girding of the loins,’ if you will. Instead of turkey I typically roast a capon, which is sort of like the veal of the poultry world. In keeping with the spirit of the ‘holiday,’ I like to be able to taste as much suffering as possible in my comestibles. I don't like to divulge my top secret roasting method, but it does involve adding so much bacon and sausage that the capon becomes virtually unrecognizable. And lots of vermouth.”
Most awkward Thanksgiving story?
“At the dinner table my grandfather put down his fork, wiped his mouth, and announced that not only was the rapture nigh but that the Antichrist would be coming from out of Russia. My belief is that Grandpa suspected Vladimir Putin of being the Antichrist. I personally suspect him of being Dobby the House Elf from the movie ‘Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.’ Google Image that shit and just tell me I am mistaken.”